by Matt Coyle
I told Buckley I wouldn’t come to his office for his meeting with Trey before the hearing. I didn’t say anything about waiting for Trey to arrive outside. Not that I’d confront him. Or even let him see me. I was more interested in seeing who dropped him off. Trey’s car was still parked on his street in Pacific Beach, so he wouldn’t be driving it. I’d follow whoever dropped him off long enough to figure out who they were and which puzzle they fit into.
I parked down the block from Buckley’s office the morning of the hearing for a new trial for Randall Eddington. An hour later, a taxi dropped Trey Fellows off at the office. Damn. No mysterious guardian to follow back to Trey’s new hideout. I still had a plan B; follow the cab Trey took after the hearing.
Trey, Buckley and his associates, Melinda and Jacob, exited his office building at noon for the one o’clock hearing. Buckley must have given Trey a crash course in trial prep and appropriate apparel. Trey had entered Buckley’s in jeans and a sweatshirt and came out wearing a perfectly tailored gray suit. His dreadlocks were tied back in a ponytail. He looked respectable. I hoped he wasn’t stoned.
Jacob stowed a file box in the trunk of Buckley’s Cadillac, and the four of them got in the car. They could have walked the two blocks to the courthouse and made it on time, but why not take the Caddie?
I gave them a full minute before I drove the Mustang over to the courthouse. Buckley parked in the courthouse parking lot reserved for court business. I circled until I found a spot a half block away with a view of the entrance to the courthouse. I scanned the area, looking to see if the Raptors had gotten wind of the hearing. No Choppers or old American muscle cars in sight.
Two hours later, Buckley, Melinda, and Jacob exited the courthouse. No Trey. Maybe he stayed behind a second to take a leak. I called Buckley anyway and watched him put the phone up to his ear.
“Rick.” He sounded happy. “Everything went well, and the judge said he would render a decision by this evening. Trey did a fine job. Handled the cross by the prosecution with flying colors.”
“Where is he?”
“He left the courthouse after he testified about a half hour ago.” Buckley looked around, probably realizing I could see him. “Why?”
“I just wanted to thank him for standing up.”
Trey must have left the courthouse via a side exit. He wasn’t taking any chances with the Raptors or with me. Plan B hadn’t worked. I didn’t have a plan C.
Yet.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Buckley called me at my house at six p.m. I’d just sat down with a beer and pizza to watch a college bowl game. The Aqua Velva Bowl, or Old Spice, or Trojan. Hard to keep track.
“Well, son.” Happy. “All the work we’ve done paid off. The judge vacated the conviction and ordered a new trial, providing the DA wants to proceed.”
“That’s fantastic, Buckley. Let me buy you a Maker’s Mark or three.”
“How about a rain check, pardna. Jack, Rita Mae, and I are flying to San Francisco tonight so we can post bail for Randall tomorrow and bring him home.” His voice filled with emotion. “I can hardly believe it’s happening.”
“You made it happen, Buckley.” Some of Buckley’s emotion caught in my throat. “Thanks for sticking with me when I made things difficult.” Santa Barbara PD hadn’t. Neither had Bob Reitzmeyer. Not even Kim, in the very end.
“There’d still be room on the last flight to San Francisco tonight. Why don’t you join us, son?”
“Thanks, but I’ll meet up with everyone when you get back.” San Francisco had too many good memories gone bad.
Randall’s release led off all the local five o’clock news telecasts the next night. All the San Diego TV news stations had reporters outside the gates of San Quentin. Buckley must have made a few calls last night before he got onto the plane. The crew from 48 Hours was there with one of its highly recognizable reporters.
I sat alone in my living room in front of the TV, and felt guilty for not feeling happier for Randall and his family. I thought of Colleen. Gone forever. I thought of Kim. Just gone. Bob Reitzmeyer, friend to enemy. Jasmine, just enemy. Timothy Buckley, boozy brother of broken lives. A mortgage that I could no longer afford. This was the life I’d made. There had to be something in me that liked it this way. Something crooked that I couldn’t make straight. Or didn’t want to.
Midnight sat next to me, his head under my hand that didn’t have a beer in it. He didn’t know that he’d probably soon be moving to a rental with a tiny yard, but he sensed something was wrong. He could see it in my eyes and sense it in my touch. Just as I could feel his anxiety in mine.
I heard a news anchor set the scene at San Quentin and a reporter take it from there. I turned away from the view and self-pity and looked at the flat screen mounted on the wall. A beautiful Latina with big eyes and a wide mouth had just asked Randall Eddington what it felt like to be a free man, then stuck her microphone ahead of five or six others in front of Randall’s face. He looked down at his grandmother, enveloped in his right arm, and a huge grin grew on his face.
“Unbelievable.”
Reporters machine-gunned questions, and Randall looked at Buckley, then took a step back.
Buckley filled the void. “The family wants to thank everyone for coming out as well as the hundreds of well-wishers who have supported Randall and his grandparents throughout this ordeal. But we’re only halfway home, folks. Randall is not yet free. He is out on bond and will get a new trial. While we are confident that Randall will be exonerated, we hope the new district attorney of La Jolla will right the wrong of the previous DA, and drop all charges so this innocent young man can get on with his life, which has been maliciously delayed for eight years.”
The reporters continued to press Randall with questions as Buckley held up his hands. “Folks, Randall does not have anything else to say at this time. Please give him some privacy to be with his grandparents. You will all get a chance to talk to him back down in San Diego. He’s anxious to get back there. His home.”
A stretch limo picked its way through the crowd, and Randall, his grandparents, Buckley, and the 48 Hours reporter and cameraman all got in. Buckley had brilliantly given access to enhance favorable treatment on the show and put pressure on the DA not to retry the case. The limo slowly Y-turned, then sped away from the crowd on the way to the airport and a homecoming for Randall.
Seeing Randall happy and free from prison, at least for now, made my beer taste better. Like Buckley had said, we were only halfway home, but it sure beat showing a two-timed wife pictures of her husband naked and ugly with another woman.
Buckley was right. It did feel good to work a case that mattered.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Randall’s release had blown up nationally on every news channel that had covered his original trial seven years ago and condemned him even before the judge did. Now they all sang his praises and attacked a criminal justice system that could allow an innocent young man to go to prison for life.
Three days after the homecoming, Buckley had the defense team assemble at Jack and Rita Mae Eddington’s condo at three p.m. Rita Mae answered my knock on the door and, as soon as I saw her face, I knew what the meeting was about.
I stepped inside and saw the 48 Hours film crew and reporter. A man with a close-trimmed black beard nodded to me. I didn’t nod back. I suspected him to be the producer Max Greenfield. I’d told him on the phone, as well as Buckley, that I didn’t want to be interviewed. Luckily, the camera was pointed at Randall, who sat on the couch next to Jack and Rita Mae, reseated after letting me in. If the camera swung around to me, I’d hit the door and not look back. But I knew that today, I was a minor character in reality TV. That was fine by me.
Buckley’s young associates, Melinda and Jacob, stood behind Buckley, who took center stage in the middle of the living room. Now that I’d arrived, the event could proceed. Buckley turned to the Eddingtons, but still left enough profile to be caught on camera. I knew what
he would say before the words left his mouth. Not because I had foreknowledge, but because Rita Mae’s face was a fleshy mood ring.
“We all have to head down to the courthouse for a press conference at four-thirty p.m. But I wanted to let everyone know in private what it’s gonna be about. District Attorney Franklin will not be seeking a second trial at this time.”
The Eddingtons burst up off the couch all at once. Randall hugged Rita Mae, who couldn’t hold back her joyful tears any longer. Jack patted Randall on the back and put a hand to his own watery eyes. Melinda and Jacob took turns hugging Buckley and then each of the Eddingtons. Randall, dark eyes glistening, shook Buckley’s hand and then bear-hugged him so hard I feared for Buckley’s ribs. Rita Mae took over when Randall finished and sobbed uncontrollably into Buckley’s shoulder. The 48 Hours crew let the camera roll, and were smart enough to know that the scene would play out best without their interruption.
I watched it all from the corner of the room near the door. My heart swelled to know that I’d had a part in freeing an innocent man. It also ached a bit for not having such a definitive moment to lift the cloud of suspicion off me for Colleen’s murder. Buckley, released from Rita Mae’s grasp, smiled at me, and I chased the selfish thought from my head.
“Come on over, son.” Buckley held out his hand. “You’re a damn big part of this.”
Rita Mae didn’t wait for me to move. She strode over and wrapped me in a hug. I sensed the TV camera swing over to us, and I turned Rita Mae toward the door, giving the camera my back.
“God bless you, Rick, for all you’ve done to help free Randall.” Her voice choked on joy and pain. She still smelled of vanilla and baby powder, and reminded me of my late grandmother. We hugged long and hard, and I fought the moisture gathering in my own eyes.
Rita Mae took my hand and led me across the room to the teary-eyed group. I kept my back to the TV camera. Randall stepped toward me and gave me the handshake/one-shoulder bro hug.
“Mr. Cahill, I can’t tell you how much your belief in my innocence means to me.” Sunlight cutting through the glass door from the balcony reflected off his glasses, hiding his eyes. “You know what it’s like to be accused of something you didn’t do and have the whole world against you. That’s why I wanted you to work with Mr. Buckley. I knew you’d find the truth.”
Buckley had told me that Jack and Rita Mae had chosen me. They probably had told Randall about me, and he’d gotten on board after the fact. Still, it was a nice thought.
Jack shook my hand and thanked me. He seemed sincere, without any residue of anger from my mistaken accusation at the golf course. The associates hugged me. I enjoyed Melinda’s hug more than Jacob’s. Buckley slung an arm over my shoulder, his long, gray hair in a ponytail braid.
“Rick Cahill, you are one ornery sumbitch. But, you’re a bulldog for the truth.” His breath had an afternoon nip of Maker’s Mark in it. No judgment. He’d earned it. “Without you poking ’round where no one wanted you to, this day might never have come about.”
I passed on the “aw shucks” moment. My “poking ’round” had cost me my job and the friendship of the one man left on earth I’d looked up to. But today, it was worth it. Randall Eddington was free, and his grandmother could smile again. I curved a pinch-lipped smile and nodded.
“Feels good, don’t it?” Buckley pulled me close so I got a whiff of last night’s Maker’s Mark on top of today’s. “Being on the right side.”
“Yes, Timothy.” I slapped him on the back and squeezed his neck. “It sure do.”
The 48 Hours reporter moved toward Randall and the cameraman followed. Restraint over, time for interviews. Buckley followed the camera. He knew today’s victory would up his client load and he’d milk that cow dry. As he should. I slid back into the corner of the room. When the producer worked to get everyone seated, I eased out the front door.
Five steps down the hall to the stairs, I heard the Eddingtons’ door open and close. “Rick.”
I turned and saw Max Greenfield striding toward me. Young, thin, with curly black hair above black, horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like a grad student studying for his MFA. I kept walking.
“Rick.” I heard his steps quicken into a trot. “Just give me a second. Please.”
I stopped above the staircase and waited for him to catch up.
“I’m Max Greenfield. We spoke on the phone. I know you didn’t have a good experience with our show ten years ago.” He gave me a concerned look. “But things have changed. Heck, I wasn’t even working for 48 Hours then. And you helped free an innocent woman from jail two years ago, and now an innocent man from prison.”
He’d done his homework, but he’d only read the Cliffs Notes version. My story read more like a senior thesis. And not one that would grade out any higher than a C. I gave him nothing, but let him say his piece.
“Just give me five minutes in front of the camera and you can tell all of America your story. The real one. How being wrongly accused has made you a crusader to free others in your situation. It will be free publicity for your new agency.” Buckley had obviously gotten in his ear. “And it will be great TV.”
I couldn’t blame Greenfield for wanting to make “great TV.” But, five minutes wouldn’t be enough and ten seconds would be too much. Either way, it wouldn’t be great TV. Especially for a family up in Mill Valley, still grieving the murder of their daughter and sister ten years later. For them, it would be salt in an unhealable wound.
“I’m not on a crusade, kid. Too many innocent people die on those.”
I fled down the stairs to my car.
Buckley called me a half hour later when he realized I’d left. He tried but couldn’t convince me to come down to the press conference. I’d spent enough time in front of cameras and on the front pages of newspapers when Colleen had been murdered, and again when I stuck my nose in the middle of a murder investigation two years ago. Things hadn’t turned out well either time.
I watched the local news at five p.m. Every station led off with a tape of the four-thirty news conference in front of the old Episcopal Church that had been converted into La Jolla’s only courthouse forty years earlier.
A stern-faced La Jolla DA, Candace Franklin, stood at the podium. She wore a no-nonsense business suit to go with her no-nonsense expression. She said that, due to new evidence, she would not retry Randall Eddington for the murder of his family, but that the search for justice would go on.
Translation: At a time when the existence of La Jolla’s District Attorney’s Office and Police Department teetered on the constant threat of a voter ballot initiative, it would be best not to hold a trial that would expose the underhanded and illegal tactics of both. Especially with a network news organization hanging around.
A reporter shouted a question as to whether Randall Eddington was still a suspect in his family’s murders.
Candace paused long enough to belie her answer. “No.”
Translation: We still think he did it, but there’s not a chance in hell we’ll try him again for reasons already stated.
Chief Moretti replaced DA Franklin at the podium and gave his own justice speech. He wore his dress blues instead of one of his Italian suits to give an air of authenticity to his quest for justice. He first introduced himself so everybody would know he was in charge.
“New evidence has come to light that, while not completely exonerating Mr. Eddington, has led the investigation in a different direction. The La Jolla Police Department will pursue all leads in the murders of Thomas, Alana, and Molly Eddington until the murderer is brought to justice. The people of La Jolla can be confident that LJPD is on the case.”
Translation: We still think Randall is guilty, but will not pursue a case against him for reasons listed above. Hopefully, there will be enough evidence to arrest the biker, or there will be another murder to take La Jollans’ minds off the Eddington case.
When asked, Moretti declined to describe the new evidence.
; Buckley took the podium next. He thanked everyone for coming, then thanked DA Franklin for siding with justice as opposed to political expediency. Of course, she’d done just the opposite, but Buckley was a Texas gentleman and too smart a man to imply that any attempt to retry Randall would be pure politics.
Buckley then thanked his defense team by name, including me, saying that I’d risked my career to help free an innocent man. Good to his word, as usual. Finally, he pulled Randall, Jack and Rita Mae up to the podium. “Randall will say his piece in a moment, but I just wanted you all to meet Jack and Rita Mae Eddington, Randall’s grandparents. Without their love and unrelenting faith in their grandson, young Randall would still be in prison. These are two of the finest people I’ve ever met.”
Jack nodded and Rita Mae blushed. Buckley then introduced Randall. Broad shouldered with prison muscles, he filled up the TV screen and looked bigger than he did in person. The falling winter evening light softened his thousand-yard prison stare, and he looked like a large man happy to be alive. He thanked his grandparents, Buckley, and his team.
“And I want to thank someone who is not here today, but should be here front and center, Rick Cahill. Mr. Buckley mentioned him, but I wanted to single him out because of the courage he showed in helping to free me. Not only did he lose his steady job to work on my case, he was assaulted by a criminal biker gang that is protecting the real killer of my family, Steven Lunsdorf.”
Buckley quickly wedged himself between Randall and the microphone. Nervous smile under his ten-gallon hat. “We’ll leave the La Jolla Police Department to handle the investigation. I’m afraid, as you can see, it’s getting dark, so that will be all we have time for tonight. Please respect this wonderful family’s privacy as they take time to get reacquainted after eight long years.”
Buckley hurried the Eddingtons away from the podium toward a limo parked at the curb. Reporters chased them, firing questions about Steven Lunsdorf and the purported new evidence. Buckley ignored all and herded the family into the limo, then jumped in after them.